


reconsidering sputnik

by pyrotech



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AKA antagonizing each other, Angst, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Implied Clint/Laura/Nat, Insomnia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:06:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrotech/pseuds/pyrotech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of going into cryo, Bucky gets a PTSD service dog named Laika. That’s it. That’s the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags are to be updated with the story, including content warnings/tags. Story will be updated sporadically because the author is a student with a job (sorry). There is going to be some degree of Steve/Sam/Bucky (originally this read just Steve/Bucky). Also, I am not an expert on PTSD service dogs, and some tweaks have been made for the sake of fiction. Don't take this as true to life, all that jazz.

T’Challa at least had the courage to break the news in person over dinner. “I cannot offer you refuge here.” He was staring directly at Bucky when he said it, corners of his mouth pulled down and eyes filled with sympathy, but resolve.

A few days ago, the Wakandan doctors had agreed that the best “cure” for the trigger phrases was simply time passing, as neuroplasticity slowly corrected his brain. Time, with safety and peace. Bucky had secretly hoped that would pass here, in the king’s palace, but knew it was unlikely, so the news wasn’t shocking to him. Steve, however, tensed up, and Bucky could tell that he was caught between his politeness and indignation that Bucky was to be left on the run-- again. T’Challa glanced at Steve, almost a challenge, as though daring him to ask him to explain himself, even though Bucky was sure he was about to do so anyways.

“It’s alright, Your Highness,” Bucky said quietly, before either of them pissed the other off. “I understand, you’ve done enough.”

And he had. Met him and Steve outside the bunker, offered them passage to Wakanda. Two of the Dora Milaje had arrived to escort Zemo separately from them, which Bucky was only grateful for. He didn’t need him making daggers at the back of his head for the trip back to Wakanda. A team of doctors had met them, mostly fussing over T’Challa first, until he redirected them to the other two. He had allowed them to stay here the past week. It was more than anyone other than Steve had done for him in the past two years, and T’Challa had more than paid off his debt for his anger at his father’s death. If there was ever a need for such a debt to be repaid.

“My country is taking her first steps into the world, and I am taking my first steps as her king. Together, we have caused our first uproar by renouncing the Sokovian Accords and demanding their reform. We want to do right by this world.”

“And you can’t do that with armies beating down your doorstep if they hear you’re hiding the Winter Soldier,” Bucky guessed, and T’Challa nodded unhappily.

“And Captain America,” he added. Steve wasn’t quite Captain America anymore, since he gave up the shield. But they were both threats to the stability of Wakanda.

Steve sighed, rubbing his hand over his face and pushing his plate away, looking at Bucky with a forced smile on his face. “Guess even when we’re not trying to we’re causing problems, huh?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Bucky muttered. “You’re the one always getting into fights. I like the quiet life.” Steve laughed, and Bucky smiled back at him, heart fluttering. They could make it together. They always did.

T’Challa was smiling too, body relaxing as they joked. “I’m not kicking you out tonight, of course,” he said, returning to eating. “And we have unfinished business, I believe.” He gestured to the stump where Bucky’s left arm used to be, still in a navy blue sleeve. “Have you made your choice on if you would like a replacement?”

Bucky moved the metal, reminded of a couple nights ago, when Steve had called it a lamb’s tail. “I… I don’t know,” he said honestly. He had decided on living without an advanced prosthesis, because he was much less of a danger without one, and really, he didn’t need to have the ability to punch through brick walls. But that was under the assumption that he wouldn’t be out in the world, where he might have to defend himself. Despite everything, he would still rather go down swinging, at least giving himself a chance to escape.

But he didn’t know if he’d want that same power if he lost. So he gave a one armed shrug, and T’Challa nodded understandingly, then turned his gaze to Steve.

“As for you, Captain,” he said, the corner of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “We need to discuss your… truly daring and audacious plan to rescue your friends.”

\---

Bucky found himself unable to sleep that night, staring at the ceiling of the suite that T’Challa had provided him. The bed was comfortable enough, and the window was open, allowing balmy wind and the pleasant buzz of the jungle to drift through it. But as was often the case in Bucharest, as much as he wanted to sleep, he couldn’t. Too many errant and bouncing thoughts, ranging from both whole and fragmented memories, to the pestering thought that he should go back into hiding, away from everyone, away from Steve. But it was an insufferable option, because the only thing he had been thinking about since Steve showed up in his apartment was how he lasted two years without reaching out to him.

He spent some time hunched over a new notebook, the light on as he scribbled the memories down, even the ones he had written before. He didn’t know what happened to his bag and the notebooks inside of it, only knew that someone had put it in a bag labeled evidence as they stripped off his backpack and jacket before putting him in that cage. He figured they were lost forever. Steve tried to cheer him up by saying that evidence could be returned to their owners, but Everett Ross had made abundantly clear that he would never be getting a fair trial. Even the idea of a lawyer was laughable. Human rights apparently only applied to those with humanity, and most of the world seemed to think he had lost the last specks of that. Maybe they were right.

His pen stopped, not for the first time, after he wrote the first couple words of the most recent memory that was yet to be written, of Zemo and the bunker and seeing the other Soldiers dead in their tanks. He scribbled out his first attempt, and started again with _Steve found me in Bucharest_ , hoping starting it with a good beginning would give him the energy to keep going, but he paused again, before crossing that out too, shoving the notebook under the mattress and standing up.

Pacing in the room hadn’t been a problem before tonight, but the news that he couldn’t stay prickled under his skin, making even the most previously pleasant things irksome and tiring. The ten steps from one wall to another were too little. He had been told repeatedly that he was free to wander around the palace, but he had avoided going around at night, because it felt too much like sneaking around. It didn’t help that he passed the occasional guard, most of who looked at him with curiosity, but a couple of who regarded him with mild suspicion. But no fear. And no attempts to stop him, or redirect him to his room. And tonight was quiet. Not another living soul to come across his path.

Well. Not another person at least. He was almost on top of the creature before he noticed two yellow eyes in the shadows, and paused. They looked at each other for a few seconds, before the animal decided that Bucky must not be a threat, because it slowly came towards him. He crouched down to meet it, holding out his right hand for it to sniff and rub against. It was, unsurprisingly, a cat, black and larger than the strays that he sometimes fed in Bucharest, and Brooklyn before that. Not a panther, thought that wouldn’t have been surprising either, but possibly a domesticated descendant. Undeniably a cat, though, because as soon as he started to reach to pet it, it moved out of reach.

“Don’t have to be rude about it,” he said, groaning as he straightened up. The cat walked away a couple steps, then turned back around, looking at him expectantly. “What? I don’t have food, if that’s what you’re after.” He continued walking, and the cat trotted next to him until he went to take a turn it apparently didn’t like, because it headbutted his leg, then waited until he followed it. “Yeesh. They spoil you here, don’t they?”

They didn’t go far. The cat slipped through an open door, and Bucky hesitated, then knocked on the frame. T’Challa said something he didn’t know in Wakandan, then something he recognized as an invitation to come in.

“Ah, Seargent. I was just asking Kaluki who she brought to see me,” he said, hand hovering over a tablet and smiling at him.

“Does she do this often?” Bucky asked, squinting at the cat, who was happily grooming herself on the desk.

“Mhmm, occasionally. Did she wake you?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You and I both, then,” he said, gesturing for Bucky to sit, which he did. “You know, we have a number of cats around here, and Kaluki is the only one who ever wakes our guests. She woke the Kenyan Secretary of Foreign Affairs last year, little troublemaker. Wonderful companion, however. I might even be able to sleep after I finish here, if she wants to accompany me.”

“Kingly duties?” Bucky asked, because it seemed polite.

“Most of my duties are kingly now,” T’Challa said gravely. “But yes. Many dignitaries to meet now.” Unspoken is the fact that T’Chaka’s death had been so sudden and unexpected, and Bucky felt a twinge of guilt at the fact that it was an attempt to get to Steve through him that had caused it. But if T’Challa was upset, he didn’t show it, only looked pensive for a moment, then shook his head a little, leaning forward to pet Kaluki. “Is there anything I can do to help with your sleeplessness?”

“No, just… nervous.” He shrugged. “World’s looking for me again.” They had at first, with D.C., and he had waited months, barely leaving where he was holed up, and then the world was distracted by Sokovia, and it felt like he could breath again. Could rebuild, even. And then last week happened. He shrugged. “But I can’t ask you to endanger your country for me. I think I’ve toppled enough governments.” He smiled crookedly, hoping to make it seem more humorous than self-flagellant.

“I am sorry,” T’Challa said sincerely. “But thank you for understanding.”

Bucky shook his head. “Steve reckons Barton will have a place that he’ll be willing to share. ‘Shared traumas’ or something. And if his plan goes right, then all of his friends will be wanted criminals anyways. Figure we can share a couple safe houses.” Don’t worry, he meant. “I’ve survived before, your Highness.”

“I know. And I have faith that Captain Rogers and his friends will not let something happen to you.” Kaluki interrupted the conversation by making a chuffing noise, then jumping onto Bucky’s lap.

“Oh, now you want me to pet you?” he grouched, but did so anyways. A little of the pressure in his chest and stomach, still present despite his talks, lessened.

“Animal companions can do wonderful things for our health,” T’Challa said. “Maybe she thinks you need some care too. I hear the world outside of Wakanda has become more and more aware of that in the past years, especially with those who have engaged in combat.”

Bucky had seen a couple dogs with service vests on in Bucharest, and shrugged again. He’s not sure anyone would trust him with a pet.“Maybe.”

They sat in a silence for a few minutes, T’Challa returning to the tablet while Bucky stroked Kaluki’s back absentmindedly. It wasn’t the worst idea. He had let strays into his apartment, and enjoyed them sitting on the sill while he smoked out the window. Some of them didn’t even mind the metal arm.

Which was another question to be answered, whether he would be getting a new arm before he left Wakanda. Honestly, it had already been answered. He couldn’t justify not being able to defend himself, or Steve, or any of his friends who had sacrificed for him, at full capacity. If T’Challa was offering an advanced prosthesis, then the smart move was to take it. And the doctors here had been manageable so far, always asked him if he was okay with procedures before they did them, which was more of a luxury than he had been afforded in a long time. And Steve had promised to be there whenever he needed him. And for this… he would probably need him.

T’Challa nodded when he asked if the prosthesis was still an option. “Of course. We can have it ready in a couple days, if you wish. Around the time Captain Rogers’ outfit will be done.”

“His outfit?”

“He was going to break into the Raft in his old uniform.” T’Challa didn’t roll his eyes, but Bucky could hear it in his voice. The bloody, torn uniform that he had used to fight Stark. “I convinced him we could provide him with a suitable alternative.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the talk, too.” He gently nudged Kaluki, who jumped off his lap with an annoyed meow.

“Of course. I wish you better luck with sleeping.”

“You too. And good luck with your duties.”

“I think I will need it,” he sighed as he looked down at the tablet again.

Bucky made his way back to his room about a half an hour later, only to find Kaluki curled up on his bed, right in the middle, of course. He sighed, laying on his side. “If I’m getting a pet, it’s not gonna be a cat, and it’s because of you,” he told her shortly, and her ears twitched, but she didn’t move otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In true longwinded fashion, the first chapter doesn't even have Laika in it. She'll be in the next one, I promise.  
> Infinite love to [Locke](http://darknessoflightreborn.tumblr.com) and [Aja](http://angryqueermermaid.tumblr.com) over on tumblr for enabling me/helping me/inspiring me/giving me plot points.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, he was sitting on the porch of Barton’s farm, chewing on his lip thoughtfully as he watched Barton happily chase around a mutt of a dog, greyed-yellow with an ugly face. Barton had been miserable ever since Steve and Bucky rescued him from the Raft a week ago, except for whenever he went out to play with Lucky after dinner. Then he was smiling and laughing, saying “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” in increasingly silly voices. Now, he was trying to wrestle a toy away from him. He had told Bucky that he had him registered as an emotional support animal. Only thing that made him happy sometimes on really dark days, especially after calls from his kids. 

“Depression, nightmares,” he said over a couple of beers one night. The conversation was casual, Barton was always casual, but calculated. “Helps with those things. Too old to get trained as a proper service dog, but he works just fine.” 

Bucky asked Sam, who was still an antagonistic little shit, about whether he knew someone that specialized in service dogs later. Sam thought about it for a second. 

“Yeah, I know someone, I can help put you in touch. On one condition.” 

“What,” Bucky said, already regretting the answer as Sam grinned deviously. 

“I get to name them.” 

“This feels like giving you my firstborn,” Bucky complained, but agreed anyways. So he could only think that he deserved it when Sam texted him at eight in the goddamn morning saying that he had decided on Laika as a name. As in, Soviet dog sent into space in a tiny box that they called Sputnik 2, he clarified, followed by a Wikipedia link. Sam had a peculiar brand of humor, one that Bucky secretly thought was amusing. 

“Very funny,” he sent back.

“I really am,” Sam replied, but he kept his end of the bargain, which was how Bucky ended up squeezed into a car with Sam, facing the drive with a weary resignation and determination just past morning rush hour, headed to Columbus, Ohio. Or just west of it. They were still trying to avoid people, even though most of the mass media had moved onto Zemo and his trial, spearheaded by T’Challa. There were still talks about the mysterious missing Avengers, and the rumors that Captain America and the Winter Soldier were the ones to break them out of the Raft. The small Iowa town near Barton’s farm seemed unconcerned with them, but that wasn’t to say the rest of America would let them pass. 

The first hour in the car was mostly them passing quips back and forth, and Bucky not-so-subtly elbowing Sam in the side. “Sorry,” he said insincerely, while Sam wheezed and swatted at him. “Not used to such tight spaces.” 

“No supersoldier hitting, that’s not cool, man! What did T’Challa make that out of, vibranium?” 

“I think so,” Bucky said, amused, as he looked at the new hand. “What else would it be made of?” 

The arm was dark grey, almost black. He had asked to keep the star, even though Steve had dropped the shield. 

T'Challa had raised an eyebrow at that. He had seen the notebook when he took it from Zemo, and again when Wakandan neurologists looked at it for hints to undoing the Sputnik codes. Bucky had just shrugged and said that he liked space. So he got a white star with a black outline, right above where the new arm locked into the silver Russian stump, which was in turn fused to his spine. 

Sam turned on music after that, and Bucky watched cornfield after cornfield roll past the car. He might have even nodded off for a minute, because corn seemed to turn into trees between blinks. They stopped at a Starbucks in a small town, Bucky opting for a black coffee while Sam scoffed and ordered a frappe-tea-something, green and cold and topped with whipped cream, which he then had Bucky hold while he rearranged the water bottles in the cup holders. Bucky gave it back when he asked, but then pressed his freezing fingers to Sam’s hip, which prompted Sam to use the straw to poke at Bucky’s ear for the entire first minute back on the road. 

“You know that distracted driving is dangerous, right?” Bucky asked, finally batting it away. 

“More or less dangerous than driving without a steering wheel?” Sam snarked back, but he finally started using the straw for its intended purpose. Bucky sighed. 

“I’m never gonna live that one down, am I?” 

“Nope,” Sam said, drawing out the word and popping the sound at the end. “Not letting you drive this one, either.” He was clearly trying to hide a smile by taking a drink, but the shame of his last few days with Hydra and what they tried to make him do caused heat to rise in Bucky’s cheeks, and he glanced away, back out the window, before speaking again. 

“Sorry.” 

Sam didn’t say anything for a few seconds, like he was considering it. “Apology accepted.” 

That helped some of the tension in his chest, and he eased himself back into the seat. He still felt like shit for what he did. He could have killed any of them, and got far too close more than once. Like Steve had said, it wasn’t his fault. Hydra had used him as a weapon. But the memories were still there, and when they bubbled up, they brought shame and guilt and despair with them. And after last month, he knew that no matter how good he was, how much he redeemed himself, there was a corruption so deep inside of him that not even Wakanda’s best doctors could root it out with certainty. Which didn’t make him feel better about everything he had done, just made him scared as hell. 

“Don’t worry about the wings,” Sam continued, breaking Bucky out of his thoughts. “They were an old model anyways, the Avengers ones are so much better.  _ And  _ I got to see a building fall on Rumlow’s ass.” He frowned a little. “Can you talk about the dead like that if they were threatening you at the time?” 

“I think my notions of politeness are a little outdated,” Bucky said dryly. Sam responded with a generic dinosaur comment, which Bucky gladly accepted as a humorous segue away from D.C., and eventually, that conversation petered out too. 

They had both ran out of coffee by the time they arrived in the park where they agreed to meet Sam’s contact. Park was... perhaps too generous. It was really just a lot of tall grass with a couple paths. But he honked and waved out the window to a woman looking at her phone in a crossover vehicle in the shoddy parking lot, and after she looked up, she waved back. 

“Could you have had me drive anywhere more backwater?” she grouched to Sam when he got out of the car, but grabbed his outstretched hand and hugged him tightly nonetheless. 

“Oh, I missed you too,” he said, as Bucky got out of the car. “Tess, this is Bucky, Bucky, Tess.” 

Funnily enough, the safest name for him to be called right now was also the most familiar and unique, since the media had taken to calling him James Barnes. Apparently, his nickname had become somewhat of a cultural icon. Very popular in alternative culture scenes, according to Romanoff. He didn’t know if Tess knew that he was  _ that  _ Bucky, but he trusted Sam, and Sam trusted her, so he gave her a smile as she outstretched her hand for him to shake. Didn’t even seem offended that he was wearing gloves, despite the climbing June heat. 

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” he said. 

“Who can say no to Sam when he bats those lovely brown eyes?” she asked, with a tone suggesting she was resigned to her fate. “But seriously, it’s my pleasure. Anything I can do to help a fellow vet out.” 

He nodded. He knew, logically, that he was a veteran, just like Sam, Tess, even Steve. But there was something about the war that he had been through that seemed removed, like he was an imposter. Something much darker seemed to sit under his skin.

But if Tess had any inkling that he felt out of place between her and Sam, she didn’t show it. “Thank you for filling out that sheet, by the way,” she said, turning back towards the car. Romanoff and Steve had helped him out with that, at different times. Romanoff understood the forms, and Steve understood him, so they got it done. Even if he had to do some of it alone, because he didn’t want Steve to know just how bad it was sometimes. 

But he didn’t have much time to harp on that, because Tess was opening the hatchback and there was the dog he had only seen in cell phone pictures on Sam’s phone. She was twice as wonderful as in the photos, and her head perked up as the door opened. She was big, Bucky had asked for that, because it made him feel safe. And nowhere in his resurfaced memories had rottweilers haunted him, not like German Shepherds. It was a bonus that the coloring above her eyes made her look like she had eyebrows. 

“C’mere, let her smell you,” said Tess, and Bucky hesitantly stepped forward. He stripped off one of the gloves and stuck his flesh fingers through the cage holes, and the puppy sniffed, her cold nose tickling his fingers.

“Oh my god, she got him to giggle,” Sam said. “It’s a miracle. Tess, you’re a miracle.” Bucky looked at him only long enough to roll his eyes, because he was there when he was teasing Steve about his too-big shoes, and snickering because of it. 

“You mind if we take her out?” Tess asked, and he shook his head, and she gestured at him to step back. The dog’s tail was happily wagging, a stubby blur as Tess opened the door for her to hop down.

“Sorry about that,” she said, noticing Bucky’s gaze as she hooked a leash around the dog’s collar. “She was a rescue, we don’t work with breeders that dock tails.” 

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his prosthesis whirling as he flexed his fingers. Tess let go of her collar, and she beelined towards Bucky, Tess in tow behind her, sniffing at him again before moving over to Sam, who immediately began cooing happily. 

“Sam said that you had plans to name her Laika?” Tess asked, a little uncertainly. Bucky had refused to write the name, mostly just to spite Sam into writing it himself. 

“Sam has plans to name her Laika,” Bucky corrected, shaking his head amusedly, then called to Sam. “You know that just means “barker” in Russian, right? Did you name your pigeons Squawkers one through fifty?” 

“Their names were Feathers, thank you very much,” Sam said haughtily. 

“Well, we probably won’t do a name change until we’re a little further in the process,” Tess said. “Just to make sure you’re sure about this. It’s a big responsibility.” 

Bucky nodded automatically. He had worried about that part of it, that it was another being to take care of and feed and watch over, but as Romanoff had pointed out, he had been alone in the world for two years, and hadn’t been starving, even managed to find a place to stay that wasn’t just squatting. 

“And it’s not like anyone here is planning on leaving you out in the cold,” she had said severely, as though she would personally see to dealing with whoever tried. And anyways, he was pretty sure Barton wouldn’t abide a neglected dog of any type on his property. 

“There’s a couple camps we run, for a week or so, to help you to get used to her commands and all,” Tess continued. “It’s all the way in Boston, but it seems like you can get a ride.” 

“I’m thinking about moving to New York again anyways,” he said, casually. He saw Sam’s head lift out of the corner of his eye, because it was the first time he had brought it up. “A… friend of a friend has an apartment building he owns, in Bed-Stuy.” Which wasn’t a lie. Barton had volunteered the farm for Steve and his merry band of vigilantes, but he had mentioned returning to Brooklyn, since he was technically retired, and he had some vague responsibilities there. And he didn’t say it, but the farm had been home, until his family had left. For their safety, and, judging by the occasional phone calls Barton got and sometimes passed on to Romanoff, because Laura was annoyed with both of them for managing to be on the wrong side of the law again. 

Tess, not knowing about and therefore unconcerned with the intricacies of his life on the run, nodded. “We work to make sure our dogs are all socialized with a vast variety of environments, from farms to cities,” she assured him. “And we do a couple home visits to ensure that everything is ready for her.” She chewed her lip a little, as soon-to-be Laika abandoned Sam to come say hello to Bucky again, circling around him, half-wrapping his legs with her leash in the process.

She came up to just below his hip, but was built heavy. Tess had made clear on their first talk on the phone that service dogs were not guard dogs, but many people with post traumatic stress disorder found that a partner with much better hearing and smelling than them to watch their back allowed them to relax, sleep easier. Laika was a reassuring weight against his leg already, and Tess laughed as she plopped down next to him, tongue lolling. 

“She likes you.” 

“Well, that’s good news,” Bucky said, unable to respond without sarcasm after his day with Sam. “I like her too,” he said, much more sincerely. “Thank you, so much, for all of this.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully. “I love my job. Hey, Blue!” That must be Laika’s current name, because she seemed to sit up a little straighter. “Fetch?” 

After detangling Laika and her leash from Bucky’s leg, while Sam laughed the entire time, being no help at all, Tess let her run around with her leash trailing behind her while she threw the ball into the grass, which led to some very amusing moments where only Laika’s head was visible. Eventually, Bucky took over, and Laika brought him the ball just as readily as she did to Tess. The sun was nearly set by the time that Laika was back in her cage, and Bucky found himself watching Tess’ car until it disappeared in the opposite direction. 

“Dude, you’re in love,” Sam said, wiping his slobber-covered hand on Bucky’s shirt. Bucky scoffed, but even he couldn’t deny that his heart felt lighter than it had in what seemed like several lifetimes. 

“Wake me up when you want me to drive,” he said instead.

“I don’t want you to drive,” Sam said. “We went over this.” 

“Then don’t wake me up,” Bucky said, smirking as he pulled down the sun visor and settled back in his seat, closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw look Laika is actually here. Giant thanks to [Locke](http://darknessoflightreborn.tumblr.com) who is nobly beta-ing my nonsense, and also providing me with face-melting words of encouragement. Also apologies it was late, some personal stuff came up.


	3. Chapter 3

The elevator in Barton’s building was broken, which wasn’t itself a problem, but it was hot as hell in the mid-August heat of New York, and his AC wasn’t anything that could be praised, either. So the stairwell was sweltering, and Bucky could feel sweat slicking his hair to the back of his neck, and it set his jaw on edge. Steve was helping him and Barton move their things into their respective apartments, the heaviest boxes balanced in his arm. Bucky wasn’t sure if Steve’s pink cheeks came from the heat or residual frustration and worry. He wasn’t about to ask, and Steve wasn’t about to offer an answer. 

“It’s hot as piss,” Barton complained, apparently happy to provide a commentary to fill in the silence. Lucky whined his apparent agreement. “Shitty elevator. I got it fixed in the holidays, it’s already broken again.” 

“Sounds like you need a better handyman,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes fixed on the back of Barton’s head, refusing to let himself turn around and confront Steve and whatever emotions may be hiding on his face. Sure, they’d be subtle, soft, but Bucky could intimately map them even now, a truth that had become more clear and uncomfortable as they spent more time on the farm together. He was almost glad Steve was staying in in Iowa with the Secret Avengers. 

“Don’t I know it,” Barton moaned as pushed the door to Apartment B open, jerking with his head to indicate that this was Bucky’s place. It was a little loft with a small stairwell in a tactical position, and he could see most of the apartment from the entrance. It was exactly an apartment that an assassin would find security in, and Bucky thought that maybe Barton was more fucked up and nervous than he let on. 

He deposited the boxes of appliances that Wanda and Sam had insisted he take with him next to the door, keeping his bag close to his body. Under the guise of casually checking the place out, he went upstairs, eyes carefully tracking places where there could be shadows, bodies, anything that didn’t belong. It was a lot bigger than the place he had stayed in Bucharest, with an open bedroom and a bathroom taking up the second half-floor, while downstairs had a kitchen by the door, and a wide, blank space with nothing but a couch and windows on the far end. Bigger, but just as visible. And that made him relax, the most he had relaxed on this trip. He almost called it off a week ago, but he knew from the moment he set foot on the farm that he couldn’t stay. It was too open, not enough places to escape and dodge and weave and hide. He belonged in cities and alleys, not trying to fit into chicken coops. 

Steve was visible down below, admiring the view out of one of the windows, the thin curtains pulled back. Or maybe studying outside, trying to find a reason to renew their argument a couple nights earlier. But if he did, Bucky would give him the same answer; he had survived before. He didn’t need Steve’s help, and he wouldn’t need Barton’s either. That didn’t mean he wasn’t thankful, but he didn’t need constant surveillance. The conversation had come to a screeching halt when Bucky had snapped that he had enough of that in his life already, and Steve looked like Bucky had punched him. Again. 

But he was still here, helping him move. It could be an expression of a hundred different emotions, but one definitive statement. Steve was willing to give him space,  _ freedom_. The sweet word had lost all meaning for awhile. And in a happier mood, he might even rib Steve about the fact that what an odd duo they made, thesis and antithesis of freedom. But Steve wasn’t Captain America anymore, not to Stark, not to the Avengers, not to the media, and not to himself. And Bucky was trying to put as much distance between himself and the Winter Soldier as he could. 

Well. As much as he could without getting all fidgety, he reconsidered, pulling out the vibranium lockbox that T’Challa had given him to keep the red notebook that Zemo had used to take control of him. Fingerprint scanner that required a pulse close enough to his own resting heart rate, and spoken passcode that he chose himself. 

“The only person who is getting in here,” T’Challa had said, pressing the surprisingly light box into Bucky’s hands right before he boarded onto a private embassy jet, “is you, Sergeant. Good luck. I hope we get to see each other again soon.” 

He tucked that under his bed, resolving to hide it better later. He hadn’t told Steve about the notebook, and he must currently think it was back with the Wakandan doctors. And Bucky knew him well enough, both before the war and after it, to know that he would insist on its destruction-- and maybe he would be right. But that notebook was the only thing that held any information about what was going on in his fucked up, broken head, and he didn’t want it gone, not until all of the bullshit that came with it was gone too.  

He left his bag with the few personal items he had on the bed, and headed back down the metal stairs, which looked like they could be dislodged with a few good kicks. No window to escape from up here, but a good tactical position if he got cornered. He purposefully kicked the last stair with his toe, and Steve glanced back at him for a second. He always got nervous when Bucky accidentally snuck up next to him, used to being silent, and the brief surprise and fear in Steve’s eyes had gotten tiring. 

“It’s a good view,” Steve said, light and encouraging. Bucky nodded, having noted the park and a couple cafes and delis on their way into the city in Barton’s van. 

“Better than where we lived,” he said, making his way over to the window with his hands in his pocket. Steve snorted. 

“A lotta places are better than where we lived. Clint said the people around here aren’t too insufferable, even if a couple hipsters have made it their home.” 

Bucky wasn’t exactly sure what a hipster was, but he wasn’t about to ask. Just figured he should steer clear. “It’s good. Good place. Feels safe.” He didn’t say why, nor that Barton had clearly picked the building based on at least a few tactical aspects. It would be their secret. 

“Good place to raise a dog?” Steve asked, finally tearing himself away from the window to face Bucky. 

“I’m not raising her,” he said, tiredly. Steve had been worried about Bucky being in charge of an animal, a living thing, even if he didn’t put it in those terms. “She’s three already. And Tess said that they don’t give dogs to people who can’t take care of them.” It had surprised him when his application went through, when he passed bonding week with Laika, so he could understand why it had surprised Steve too. But this was a responsibility he had been entrusted with, and he wanted to succeed. For once, for himself as well. “Barton said there’s a dog run not far from here. And I’m not gonna let her starve, come on, Steve.” 

Steve nodded, though he wouldn’t quite meet Bucky’s eyes, instead looking around the apartment, examining it. “No, I-- I know.” 

“We’re going to help each other,” Bucky said, echoing what Tess had told him about his and Laika’s relationship at his last day up in Boston, before Clint came and got him on an upswing from New York. Steve dropped his gaze from the loft above back to Bucky, eyes soft and worried. Bucky wanted to snap at him to stop looking at him like that. He didn’t  _ need  _ to worry. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, and his shoulders sagged on the words. “I  _ know  _ you, Buck. And I know you can do this. But…” There’s always a but. Steve laughed, hurt echoing in every note. “You’ve been through so much. I just want you to be okay. I mean… God, you were talking about going… going back into cryo.” 

It was the first time either of them had brought up what Bucky had quietly told T’Challa, when he was still having trouble talking with the doctors directly. That if they couldn’t fix this, he needed to be put away again. The very thought of it sent bile rising in his throat, but what other option did he have if those codes continued to fester in his mind?

“They found a solution,” he said, quietly. The look on Steve’s face clearly read that this wasn’t a satisfactory answer, and fear knotted his stomach even more. He couldn’t stand it anymore, and moved past Steve, his brain a skipping record that Steve wouldn’t hurt him. He found his way to the couch and sank into the cushions. A couple minutes passed, where his ragged breathing slowly evened out, hand covering his eyes. The couch sagged on his left, and slowly, like a spider making its way across the back of his hand, he felt Steve’s finger brush against the vibranium. Distantly, he admired the skill behind the new arm, that such a touch could send shivers of feeling up his spine. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again, voice soft. Bucky nodded, not pulling away, and he felt Steve’s hand settle on top of his, palm resting against his knuckles. “If this is what you want, then I’ll support you. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he breathed out. “It is.” 

“Alright,” Steve said, and they stayed like that for another minute, their combined weight sinking them so far into the couch that their shoulders were nearly touching. It was frightfully intimate. 

“I dunno why you’re worried about me when you’re the one going off to fight evil while being wanted by just about every world government,” Bucky finally said, his voice managing not to crack. Steve, unsurprisingly, looked indignant. 

“People still need help. And there will always be people who do good.”

“God,” he said, shaking his head bemusedly. “You’re lucky T’Challa took pity on you and your ragtag gang.” 

“Hey,” Steve said, suddenly serious but with a twinkle in his eye. “We’ve got Natasha. She’s a  _ professional _ .” 

As though summoned by one of his partners’ names, Barton knocked on the frame of the cracked door, Lucky squeezing through and wagging his tail happily. “How is it?” 

“Perfect,” Bucky said, and when they looked at each other, Barton gave an indiscernible nod, confirming for him that this apartment was no happy accident. Lucky plopped his head in Steve’s lap, and Steve laughed as he scratched behind his ears with his free hand. 

“You gotta promise me something, though,” he said, and Bucky raised an eyebrow in question. “You better bring Laika around sometime. Especially if she’s as cute as this goofy boy.” Bucky felt something come untied in his chest, warmth spreading up his neck

“Of course,” he said, and a new spike of heat shuddered through him as Steve tightened his grip around his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to [Locke](http://darknessoflightreborn.tumblr.com) for beta'ing! And I'm very sorry for the extended radio silence-- this semester quickly spiraled. Thank you for your patience! hearts!


	4. Chapter 4

The day Tess was scheduled to drive down from Boston, Bucky was discovered by Barton on the roof. 

“Oh good,” he said, Lucky head butting him forward so he could get through the doorway. “You do know where the roof is.”

Bucky snorted, taking a drag off his cigarette before responding. “Most people can figure out where a roof is, Barton.” 

“I wouldn't know it with you, you never take up my invitations to come up here.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at that one. The roof was fine, only a few stories above the street, and unlike down on the sidewalk, he could see for blocks around. He had planned and practiced possible escape routes across rooftops and down the sides of buildings. And he was welcome up here; Clint invited him to the apartment potlucks or whatever that they held up here every couple of weeks. The roof was no problem. The people, no matter how nice, were a different story altogether. 

“World’s still after me,” he reminded Barton. “And I know you got enough kids living here to know that ending up in the background of a photo is a disaster bound to happen.” Barton didn’t look convinced by that answer, though he kept his face otherwise impassive. 

Lucky made a sharp whine, so Bucky moved his cigarette to his left hand and let Lucky sniff and nose the flesh one until the mutt sat next to him, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “Laika’s being brought down today,” Barton said, as though he had just remembered. 

Bucky hummed a confirmation in his throat, absentmindedly scratching behind Lucky’s ear, listening to the steady thump-thump of his tail against the roof. Three men had stopped on a stoop on the other side of the street, take-out containers cradled in their laps. Bucky watched their hands move.

“You got everything you need?” 

“Yes, Barton,” he said, in a tone that strongly suggested he get off his case. “You know, there’s this great thing they call the Internet, makes looking for information easy as hell.” The nights he hadn't been able to sleep, he spent the time researching about how to take care of a dog. Tess had sent him about a dozen packets, which were sitting on the counter, well thumbed through. He knew cats well enough, even if he only ever interacted with the strays. They’d come for food, stay to be pet. 

Laika, as he had found out, required more involvement. For the week he had stayed at the small piece of property that the Foxtail Meadows Training School called its home, Tess had given him a list of what Laika needed and what tasks she knew how to do -- a list of what they would do for each other. 

Barton held up his hands in surrender, just above his waist. Satisfied, Bucky went back to watching the streets below, so he saw when Tess arrived in her navy blue hatchback two cigarettes later. Barton had gone inside after stealing a long drag off of the first cigarette, and Bucky went through the still-cracked door, careful to keep his movements brisk, but not rushed. He wasn’t a kid running for holiday gifts, and he wouldn’t act like it. He was entering a partnership, and Laika was not a toy, she was equal parts responsibility and assistance. 

Tess beamed at him when he came through the sturdy wooden door to the outside, Laika sitting stoically by her side. He saw her readjust when she saw him, like she was excited to see him but wanted to maintain her composure. Tess must’ve seen him stretched between human politeness and the desire to say hello to his new partner, because she dropped Laika’s leash. Laika very politely trotted over to Bucky, and gave him a lick on the face when he bent down to pet her, her nub of a tail wagging.

“I missed you too,” he said, his heart rising as he realized that he wouldn’t be missing her again for a long, long time.

 

Sleeping with Laika on his bed was refreshing. He knew how much he had been paying attention to every noise in the building -- the television on down the hall, Clint next door padding around in one sock, and the front door opening at three in the morning on Friday nights to let in the giggling teens that lived a floor down -- but he didn’t realize how much they kept him up. He always figured that noticing those noises was a part of his insomnia, not a direct cause. But on Friday, the fourth night Laika was there, he listened to her rumbles and snores instead, and he wasn’t awake to watch the electric clock glowing red next to his bed flip over to three in the morning -- a fact he didn’t realize until halfway through filling up her bowl for breakfast while Laika was laying down on the rug next to the counter. 

Bucky had gone over her schedule with Tess when he visited her training center; if he wasn’t up, Laika would begin to bother him around eight in the morning to get up and take her outside. Tess called it “waking a human partner”, and while he hadn’t had a problem with it in the short time that Laika had been here, she would make sure he got out of bed no matter how badly he wanted to stay there. After a short walk around the block, it was breakfast time. Clint, who was lazy, and Lucky, who was old, didn’t wake up as early, though Bucky could usually hear Lucky by ten. 

Walks were fine so far. In the weeks prior or Laika arriving, Bucky had surreptitiously explored the neighborhood at night, checking alleys and paths to the nearest bodegas, so he was ready to take her out when she arrived. The first walk with her took nearly forty minutes to get them all the way around the block, Laika sniffing and investigating everything, though never straining on her leash. Her curiosity was part of her training, so that she could operate tasks in the area around the apartment building. He supposed that, like him, she found comfort in knowing her surroundings. Today, they made it around the block in twenty minutes. 

Now, after walking, was breakfast. Bucky had been careful to the brand and type of food that Tess used when he went to pick out her food earlier in the week. With the shift in location and partner, he wanted as much to be the same for her as possible. Tess even brought up Laika’s bed with her -- a bed that Laika ignored at night in favor of sleeping next to Bucky. 

The pop of the toaster brought him out of his thoughts, and he shook his head slightly as he dropped the scoop of food into Laika’s metal dish. He set it down on a small rug next to her water dish, and Laika wagged her tail expectantly, but didn’t move. 

“Go ahead,” he said encouragingly, and she popped up, making her way to the food. Bucky smiled as he buttered the toast in his flesh hand. No matter how great the technology of his prosthetic, it seemed as though crumbs would always find their way in the cracks of the metal plating. He turned and leaned on the counter, watching Laika eat. They ate together, and Bucky was confident that he had done it all right up to this point, getting Laika. He had been right to trust Tess and Laika, and he had been right to trust T’Challa. For a long time, he felt like he couldn’t trust anyone, and so he had hid out in an apartment in Romania with plans to live uneventfully -- and hopefully die uneventfully, too. But it hadn’t worked out that way, which meant that trying to live like this, with partnership and trust, was the option left to him. And so far, he felt warmer than he had in Romania.

Laika raised her head from her now-empty bowl as Bucky looked over at her, half-eaten toast in hand. “No begging,” he warned, and Laika huffed as if offended that he suggested she would ever do such a thing. After a final exploratory search with her snout in her food dish, she trotted over to Bucky, laying down next to him, one brown paw on his boot. After reaching down and giving her scratches behind her ears, he took a picture of her with his cell phone and sent a picture to Sam and Steve, accidentally starting a group text. Steve called Laika handsome. Sam called Bucky an old man for texting them both, and Bucky decided not to send him any more pictures for the next couple days. 

_ She looks happy there _ , Steve texted him separately. 

Bucky started to text back that he thought so too, but then erased it.  _ Yeah, _ he texted.  _ She is.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you were looking for a sign that infinity war went badly, take me updating this fic a year and a half later as a sign. 
> 
> thank you as always to my beta reader, [Logan](http://darknessoflightreborn.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
